A Royal Summons
by Lady of the Rebel Angels
Summary: Hilde, a young woman of Rohan, tells her tale of life as a handmaiden to Queen Lothiriel, and wonders if her own story is interwoven with the greater tapestry of legend that surrounds her. Please read and review!
1. A Royal Summons: Autumn

A Royal Summons: Autumn

note: This story's heroine is Hilde, a character I made up in the fifth Eolasse chronicle. She was only a little girl then, about nine, but she is now almost sixteen. A Royal Summons follows her life after the Hunting of the Silmaril. Hilde is pronounced 'hild-eh'. (and also- I apologize for my blatant Eolasse promotion. I just love her so much!) I think this is my favorite story in this collection.

My name is Hilde. That is how this story should start, with my name.

It means hilt, as in sword hilt, and mother says that it means the necessary part of something, the part you can hold without getting hurt. I guess my sister, Gailen, is the blade, quick and sharp. What use is the hilt without the blade? I ask mother, and she parries, What use is the blade with out the hilt?

I have lived in Emnet, Rohan, all the fifteen and a half years of my life, unless you count the short time I spent on a horse with Lady Eolasse, the Golden One, the Thrice born, the Twilight Maiden. She has so very many names and I have but one.

She has so many stories, and I am but a single thread in the tapestry of her legend.

I was nine during the Hunting of the Silmaril, when she and her love, Legolas the elf, defeated Morgoth and stole and destroyed the last Silmaril. She was eighteen.

She was seventeen during the War of the Ring, when two halflings destroyed the ring of power, shattering Sauron's rule over Middle Earth.

She was part of the fellowship of the ring, she fought the orcs at Helm's Deep and Pelennor Fields and the battle of the Black Gate, she heard the gods inside her head.

She is Rohan's greatest hero.

She is also, oddly enough, my sister.

Not directly, obviously, she's my foster-sister Frea's half-sister, as well as Frea's half-brother (on the other side)'s wife's cousin.

I have decided to never marry royalty, because they're all so intermarried that my children might accidentally marry their illegitimate siblings.

I have lived my entire life here in a cottage with my mother and my (too many) siblings.

Until very soon, when I will be departing for Edoras and the golden hall of Meduseld, and Eolassse and Lothiriel. Because I have recieved a letter.

A Royal Summons.

Mother says I should leave soon, so as to avoid the first snows that might hinder my journey.

This is how my conversation with the Cat this morning went.

Cat, I am going to Edoras.

Frightened?

Yes.

Excited?

Yes.

Good.

I'll miss you, Cat.

Don't.

Will you miss me?

No.

Oh. Goodbye, Cat.

Meow.

He wasn't in a very talkative mood.

Ghiaibhen, the youngest sibling besides me, says my mind is turned if I talk to the Cat and the Cat talks back. I don't think I'm turned in the head; just more observant than others. I've tried talking to goats but they just nibble my fingers and breath grass-breath into my face, and birds are too quick to stop and chat.

But the Cat, he has time on his paws and likes to have a conversation, but sometimes I have to bribe him with cheese.

I'd say that mother doesn't notice the missing cheese but I know she she notices everything, so I think she mustn't mind.

It is Autumn, I thought I should say that. The moon was round and full last night.

The leaves are orange-red, the grass golden-bown, the garden going to seed and the apples round as the moon. The sky today is bluer than it has ever been before and the air smells like promises.


	2. A Royal Summons: Arrivals

now: Note: I realized that I have forgotten to include a disclaimer, so I'll say it now: I do not own the Lord of the Rings, or any of the places or characters you will recognize.

Edoras is the most impressive, noble and majestic place. It took three days of riding, but the first view was worth it.

It sits high on a rocky hill, enthroned by a great bowl of mountains to all sides. I should say that the golden hall looks as if it were thatched with gold had I ever seen the substance, but as I have not, I will describe it as best I may: like the late summer sun gleaming on the surface of the stream, but also like the tiny fireflies that flit about on Autumn evenings, and the color of a ripe yellow apple still hanging on the tree.

Like my hair, when it is clean and brushed out and lies in curling waves across my shoulders.

But inside the walls, it looks and sounds and smells like people, too many people, and not like ripe apples or Autumn evenings at all.

And inside the hall? Inside would be pretty, if it did not so much carry the odor of men and beer and sweat and burning meat. The carvings, though foggy with smoke from the central fire, are made of gold. It gleams dully from above, great phantom horses and warriors, and the throne is magnificent and polished and shines through the dust and smoke ridden air.

The Queen, too, is magnificent. She is dark haired and clean and pretty and is wearing more embroidery on her gown than I have ever stitched in my life. She smiles, laughing like little bells, and embraces me. She is small as a fairy child beside the King, who is tall and broad shouldered with hair like corn silk.

And then there is Eolasse.

She is twenty-five now, though she looks no older than eighteen, and she walks into the room and everyone stands. She glows. She radiates ferocity and laughter and beauty, as slender and youthful as an elven maiden. Her eyes are a silvery tempest that flash blue and grey from between extravagant dark lashes, her face perfectly sharp angled and alive with vivid expression and agile thought, her hair floating around her face and slender neck and shoulders like a golden veil of summer. The word beautiful was created to describe her fierce perfection.

It is easy to see how an elf could give up everything for her, come back from the dead, bargain away his very soul for one last moment beside her. I am surprised the stars from the sky don't fall to the ground at the feet of this woman who can bring the sun into this darkened hall.

It is said that all the men of Middle Earth loved her, and hope was kindled in the hearts of women, and now I can see why. The bards do not exagerate her. They fight for words fit to describe her.

I am, of course, rendered speechless, if I wasn't already by my grand surroundings.

She smiles at me, and it is like the sun blooming in my heart.

Eolasse walks farther into the room, and comes over and embraces me. Her touch is like starlight on my skin, cool and soft and radiant all at once. It is as if some of her brilliance has rubbed off on me, and I find myself softly glowing with her borrowed luminescence.

Or maybe I just feel that way.

She is so much more vivid than my memories of her.

"Hilde." she says, grinning, "It is good to see you again."

"And you, m'lady." I murmer, curtseying, first to her and then turning towards the king and his queen.

She laughs, quick and lovely.

"Welcome to Edoras." Lothiriel says in her little-bells voice, "We are honored to have another member of Grainne's family with us."

Another member of Grainne's family is honored to be with you, I think but don't say.

"Thank you, Majesty." I reply. I feel awkward, still in my riding clothes and before them.

It is only now that I notice that Eolasse is wearing a simple blouse over breeches and soft leather boots, with no jewelery besides the simply elegant moonstone she wears at her throat.

I didn't before realize what she was wearing. It doesn't matter what Eolasse wears.

"Come." Eolasse wraps a sisterly arm around my shoulders. "Let me show you around."

And so the Royal Summons has been answered.


	3. A Royal Summons: Winter

I am Hilde, the Swordhilt, of Edoras.

Did you know that Boromir son of Denethor was once called the sword arm of Gondor? That is not so very different from being a sword hilt. I did not know that either until Faramir, Prince of Ithilien, told me.

He is a kind man, eloquent in speech and laughs easily. He is a warrior, although he prefers the library to the battlefield and ink stains to scars. Eowyn, his wife and my lady Eolasse's cousin, told me that. I was helping her to mind her son, Elboron, who Faramir says takes after Boromir, and bouncing their daughter Morwen on my knees.

I think if Boromir was like Elboron then he was a good man.

It is winter now, and the snow blankets the world like a crystal-cold blanket. It makes everything quiet, except the king's hall which is always noisy with feasting and drinking and laughter, even more so now the cold weather's set in.

It is warm inside the hall, sometimes even too warm with so many bodies pressed together. The water is too cold to bathe in even here, so baths are limited and smells are pungent.

It is the solstice soon, which is why the prince and his lady are here. Eolasse and her elf have returned as well, after leaving to be with Legolas's people for the last of Autumn and the first snows.

We always celebrate the Solstice, or both Solstices, I should say, although it is a much grander celebration here than it would be in Emnet.

I am a handmaiden to Queen Lothiriel of Rohan, which means I repair her gowns and heat her washwater and mix her ink, an increasingly difficult task as the water keeps freezing. My lady the Queen is wonderful, she is good and kind and clever, and her laugh, like little silver bells, rings out often. I know what silver bells sound like now, just another thing I've learned since my arrival here.

I'm even learning how to write, as I gleefully told one of the Hall's mousers, a lithe grey cat with eyes like green marbles.

Our conversation went like this.

I am going to learn how to write, Puss.

Writing is overrated, girl.

But useful. You can do all sorts of things with it.

Like what?

I could record this conversation.

Why would anyone want to do that?

Puss, you are being cruel.

So you're learning to make squiggles of ink. My kits can do that.

Well, I'm excited about it.

Excitement is overrated.

Oh.

Did you bring me cheese?

Yes.

Now, girl, cheese is something worthwhile.

I'm glad humans have some uses.

Did I say they didn't?

No, Puss.

Meow.

I fed her the cheese, which had turned crumbly in the cold air, bit by bit from my fingers. She rubbed against my legs and then pranced away.

That's the thing about cats.

They never say goodbye.


	4. A Royal Summons: Solstice

Note: This chapter was fun to write

Note: This chapter was fun to write! I love working with the mythology and folklore of various cultures, and the idea of communal story telling is a very pleasing one. Also, I finally get to introduce Halbaran. Please- review! Constructive criticism is welcome, and I would love to know what you think of my writing.

A Royal Summons: Solstice

Solstice Eve! The fire is roaring, food is abundant, tales are long and songs are loud. And ale. Ale flows freely whenever men gather to this hall.

A candle has been lit in every window of Edoras, to invite the sun back, although I privately think we're making enough noise to disturb it out of it's sleep and call it back just to hush us.

If that didn't work, we could send lady Eolasse out to sing for it. And she wouldn't light the curtains in the Queen's bed chamber on fire as the candles did.

It is a merry, noisy party, and the nursemarys for Morwen and Elboron, the young prince, Elfwine, and Eolasse and Legolas's daughter, Symbalmyne, take turns sneaking away and into the brightly firelit hall.

I have been lucky enough to be released from my duties for the night, although secretly I would mind none so much to be looking after the children, as they are sweet when they are sleepy.

I like listening to the stories though, all about nine-fingered Frodo and Samwise the brave, who fought their way through ten thousand orcs to drop the ring of power into Mount Doom, and about the King's return, and the defeat of the dark lord Sauron.

And, of course, stories and tales abound about the Hunting of the Silmaril, and how Lady Eolasse gained immortality as a gift from the gods when she and Legolas banished Morgoth forevermore, and the fearsome battle that took place. I even catch a thread about Beren one-hand and Luthien Tinuviel, an elvish tale that I believe must have been much modified in it's journey to our hearths.

All these tales make me think, how I was born at the edge of a legend, yet too small and insignificant to take part in it.

Is it wrong to wish for adventure when you have been given a secure future? Is it ungrateful of me to long for glory and flashing swords and songs to be sung about me around the hearth?

Eolasse sings, and her song is like a caged bird that has just been released and flashes it's angel wings of freedom from a distant land. Her song is sweet with sorrow and heartbreakingly lovely.

I shall work tomorrow to copy it down so I may remember it and bring a piece of it home with me.

From dark Dunharrow in the dim morning,

with thane and captain rode Thengel's son,

to Edoras he came, to ancient halls

of the Mark wardens mist-enshrouded

golden timbers were in gloom mantled

Farewell he bade to his free people,

hearth and high-seat, and hallowed places

where long he had feasted ere light faded

Forth rode the king, fear behind him,

fate before him. Fealty kept he;

oaths he had taken, all fulfilled them,

Forth rode Theoden, five night and days

east and onwards rode Eorlingas

through Folde and Fenmarch and Firienwood

six thousand spears to sunlending

Mundburg mighty under Mindolluin,

Sea-king's city in South-kingdom

foe-beleaguered, fire encircled

Doom drove them on, darkness took them,

horse and horseman, hoofbeats afar

sank into silence, save in song.

When she finishes singing, I realize that she, too, was a maiden who lost her father to the

battlefield, and as she leaves I think I see tears prick her eyes as she leans her head against her elf's shoulder.

"Do you sing?" the voice startled me into turning, and I see a young dark haired man watching me, perhaps eighteen or a little older.

I shake my head, acutely aware of how very shy I am around strangers. Meekness is my curse.

"Pity." he replies, "We could use more sweet voices among this crowd."

I smile hastily. He has an easy grin that fills his face with mischief, almost enticing me to let my words go. Almost.

"I sing some days at home, but I've no knack for it like some." the words surprise even me.

"Sing all you wish here." he says, "Everyone's too drunk to care whether your voice is sweet or sour."

"Even you?" I ask, and cover my mouth in horror at my own impertinence.

But he laughs.

"No. Ale is a vile drink compared to elven wine, and I confess I am rather spoiled on that account."

"You've spent time with elves?" I inquire, inwardly kicking myself to shut my mouth, but something keeps making me talk.

"Spent time? Lady, I was practically raised in an elven citadel!"

I know he is boasting, but I giggle anyways.

"No," he corrects himself, "I am a filthy liar. But I accompanied Lady Eolasse and the Prince to Emyn Arnen and spent some weeks with Legolas's people."

"And?" I prompt.

"They are... wise. Beautiful, graceful, eloquent. A bit above me. Quite a bit."

I'm laughing again, before the amount of things I have said overwhelms me and I make hasty excuses, then vacate the over heating hall in favor of the crisp night chill, although within minutes I'm shivering and back inside.


End file.
